A Curse of Destiny
by elspeth20
Summary: A short story continuation of Trials of Light and Darkness. Expands significantly upon original canon, new readers heavily encouraged to start at the beginning. A young Agnarr serves as a captain in Arendelle's military, fighting alongside the Allies in the Napoleonic wars. Learn how Agnarr's firstborn daughter came to be cursed in this riveting thriller.
1. Prelude

A Curse of Destiny

A Trials of Light and Darkness Story

Prelude

 _The story I am about to tell you is the story of a curse. Not just any curse, mind you, but_ your _curse. This, Elsa, is the story of how you came to be born a witch._

 _Arno Belgold Montaigne_

* * *

Sadden's manor

Arendelle

May 16th, 1843

The late Namar Sadden's manor was quiet as church bells tolled two in the morning on the sixteenth of May. The revelers from the night before had finally cleared out at half past one, the official celebrations having ended at least an hour before. Though the many hidden servants of the manor would toil into the wee hours of the morning, setting away glasses and gathering endless reams of tablecloths for the wash, scrubbing unsavory stains out of expensive carpets and gathering hundreds of ashtrays littered with blunted cigars, the rooms occupied by nobility, domestic and abroad, had grown still.

The newlywed couple had retired to a private chamber, laden with the well-wishes of a seemingly never-ending stream of men and women wearing very expensive clothes. A well-dressed old man with the austere wisdom and shaven head of a monk could have been seen making his way from the manor a bit before the festivities ended (though it seemed, actually, that no one was there to observe as much). Wulfric Shaw slipped away with as little fanfare as he had arrived.

All the windows were darkened with drawn curtains and doused candles, and in these witching hours it seemed that most had taken to bed. As a matter of fact, only one room in the living quarters of the opulent mansion was still lit; inside a conversation of momentous importance was taking place. Let us return to it.

"Your father never told you this story, correct, miss?" Montaigne studied her with keen eyes.

"No," Elsa said, surprised that the uncertainty of the present would bring her back to the past. "Father was always very tight-lipped about what had happened to curse our family. He said it was his greatest shame."

Montaigne sighed. "You must not look back too unkindly on your father for saying as much, Elsa. It may seem to you a great flaw in his character that he was so hateful and superstitious of magic, to the point that it seemed he feared even you. Of course, you would be right; your father was certainly a flawed man. The events that we will investigate together might give you a better appreciation of your father's oft-misplaced distrust."

"I've come to terms with my powers, and my father," Elsa said slowly. "No matter how I received them, they've saved my life and the lives of many others, so I'm grateful to be what I am."

The master servant inclined his head. "Good. Good. Before we begin our journey into the past, I would provide you with a bit of background to the circumstances.

"As you will remember hearing tell of, your father spent some years of his youth serving as a captain in Arendelle's army. His father Agundar would have made him a general, of course, but your father was headstrong, and he wanted what he called a 'working man's' position."

"I've heard some stories about his army days, yes." Elsa crossed one leg over the other and laid her hands upon her knee.

"Then you will remember that Agnarr was not so lucky as to serve his military years during a time of peace. He served his captaincy during the Napoleonic Wars, and the events that I am about to recount to you occurred during Admiral Wellington's 1813 campaign in the French countryside.

"Of course, Agnarr had many daring and legendary exploits during the war, but you are well-acquainted with those by now. We will instead focus our attention on a particular span of little more than a week in November of 1813, starting with the Battle of Nivelle…"


	2. Chapter One

Author's Note:

I am not a historian, nor a linguist. The portrayal of the Battle of Nivelle as it is given below is mostly true, but has been altered in places as would be expedient to the fictional tale this story encompasses. It did not actually rain on November 10th, 1813, it just makes for good storytelling. The Duke of Wellington really did sacrifice three battalions to the French redoubts on the Greater Rhune, though in actuality his attack was more successful than represented in this fiction. It goes without saying that Arendelle was not a participant in the actual conflict.

Also, I am not fluent in French, but I know a little. I've taken my best shot at the snippets of dialogue in the passage. Comments or corrections are welcome, as always.

xxx

Chapter One

 _It is only those who have neither fired a shot nor heard the shrieks and groans of the wounded who cry aloud for blood, more vengeance, more desolation. War is hell._

 _William T. Sherman,_

 _Union General_

* * *

The River Nivelle,

France

November 10th, 1813

Agnarr Siguror clenched his fist, watching the knuckles go white before releasing the tension. After a few moments, he did it again. In his mind, the soft gurgling of the river nearby formed a blank slate, a meditative nothingness into which he reached and found himself. He could almost hear the voice. Her voice, the voice that had tantalized his dreams ever since he set foot in this country. So exotic and unfamiliar. Dangerous, it seemed. And yet, he kept searching for it all the same.

"Captain." Beauchamp recalled Agnarr to the present, squatting in front of him and waving a hand.

Agnarr blinked twice and stood up, dusting off his britches and casting his gaze around the sprawling riverside camp that spanned for two-and-a-half miles, the temporary home to sixty thousand men. The scale of the Duke of Wellington's land invasion of France was unprecedented in recent history, indicative of a Europe that had grown increasingly hostile to the 'Great French Empire' and Louis Napoleon. Agnarr's own father had called the great general a 'whoreson warmonger fit only for the deepest reaches of hell.' Agnarr had no such opinions of the man; he was fighting for the honor of his country, and little else.

"Yes? What is it, Beauchamp?"

"We've just gotten orders from the 43rd. We march in ten minutes." Beauchamp's voice was calm, but Agnarr knew he was afraid. They all were, goddammit. Wellington knew that sending men to storm the redoubts was a suicide mission, good for little more than a distraction to give other divisions the time to assume better positions.

"Alright then." Agnarr turned to look around the small collection of canvas tents that belonged to his division, and gaze upon each of his dozen men. They sat around the campfire, looking up from a stew of beans and mutton. Not the kind of fare that Agnarr would have eaten back home, and certainly not for breakfast, but his army days had made him a far stronger man than the posh noble he'd been. "Great leaders of the past would often speak words of encouragement to their men before great battles."

He strode over and hunkered down near the fire, staring into its embers.

"It would be a great shame if you cannot do the same, Captain," Tilik said, flashing his brilliantly white teeth. "You will be king one day, after all."

"I have a far road to walk before I am fit to be a king, Tilik," Agnarr said humorously. "Don't try to put gray in my beard yet."

He felt a surprising lump in his throat as he tried to continue. He'd led these men through four battles before. Not many, and they were never particularly dangerous ones, at that. The French had been vastly outnumbered, reduced to skirmishing tactics, going after supply caravans rather than pursuing casualties. The impending battle was quite a different beast.

"We understand the danger, Captain." Private Schuster was the youngest man under Agnarr's command, barely eighteen. Unlike most of the crown prince's men, Schuster was actually younger than him. "A hurricane would break on the walls of those fortresses."

Grumbling from the rest of the men indicated that they were not happy with the prospect of charging the redoubts on the Greater Rhune.

"We just have to be stronger than a hurricane, then," Agnarr said, projecting confidence that he did not feel. "As much as it begrudges me to admit it," he said now with a smirk, "the Duke of Wellington is a good man. And a smart one. He assigned us to this charge not as cannon fodder, but as line-breakers. He knows that we're tough. Not only that, he knows that we are men of honor. Men of duty. Each and every person looking back at me right now is man enough to stare death in the eyes and ask only the question: 'how soon can I charge?'"

His words were effective; his men's eyes shone with the gleam of battle. The promise of glory. "Now I don't feel like writing any letters of condolences tonight, so you boys better swear to come back alive. You hear me?"

"Yes, sir!" Came a shouted reply, with twelve crisp salutes.

"Well, alright then," Agnarr said, standing again. "I just have one question for you, men?"

They stood quiet, at attention.

"What the hell are you all doing, standing around like a bunch of English dandies? Let's go!" He clapped his hands together to punctuate his taunt.

Immediately, his men sprang into action, pulling on their uniforms, assembling battlefield triage packs, loading pistols and rifles, clipping sabers to their belts, sticking knives into their boots. The discipline of his men never failed to stir pride in Agnarr's chest, and he allowed himself a slight smile as they prepared to fight. Soon enough, they formed into an orderly row before him, a line of men with grim faces and hardened jaws. They knew what awaited them on the Greater Rhune.

"Alright, men, form up and march," Agnarr said. "Find the 43rd and stick to their right flank. That's where they were weakest back at San Sebastian, and I'll be damned if they didn't just get an unbreakable reinforcement."

"Yes, sir!" The men trotted off, and Agnarr glanced around the camp once more before following them at a jog. As they approached the sea of men in Wellington's 43rd battalion, Commander Cope waved him over.

"Sir?" Agnarr saluted to the man on horseback.

"What the hell are you doing, son?" the older man asked, squinting away from the river towards the mountain and its three star-shaped fortresses. The air felt slightly damp, like it might rain. Which would make traversing the muddy sides of the mountain uncomfortable for the soldiers and horses, and nearly impossible for the artillery.

"Just following orders, sir," Agnarr said. "Me and my men were ordered to join the charge."

"Your men were," the man said, twisting to spit over the other side of his horse before returning. "But I'm not about to risk the goddamn crown prince of Arendelle on a fool's errand like this."

Cope slid off of his horse and approached Agnarr, placing a hand on the young man's shoulder. "When your father agreed to put men on the ground in this conflict, he sent a letter to the Allied command. Do you know what that letter said?"

Agnarr hadn't known this. "No, sir."

"Well, be a sport and have a guess." Cope spit again, and Agnarr spared a momentary distasteful glance for the brown, tobacco-tainted stuff.

"I couldn't presume, sir."

Cope turned an eye on Agnarr for a few moments, and then responded. "He told us to keep you _alive,_ goddammit. Keep his only son alive! And here you expect to charge uphill into artillery fire all morning. No, boy, get back to the command tent. Might still be some breakfast left."

Agnarr bristled momentarily as Cope swung his leg back into the stirrup and boosted onto the magnificent white horse, but by the time Cope glanced down at him again, his face was a mask of calm. "All due respect, sir, I have a duty to my men. I'm not going to let them face this alone."

"You're being a damn fool," Cope growled, twisting his reins and beginning to guide his horse away. "But I can't stop you. You're not under my command."

"Before a man can lead a nation, he must lead a family," Agnarr called after Cope, quoting a well-known passage from Foscarelli's _The King,_ a seventeenth-century philosophical treatise that was in vogue with the nineteenth century's 'enlightened' monarchs. Agnarr himself owned a copy, and read a chapter every week. "Given as I have not yet had time to raise a family of my own, I will accept my men as a fair substitute."

Cope waved his hand dismissively, continuing to ride away.

xxx

Agnarr's men were among the two thousand or so who charged the redoubts on the sides of the Greater Rhune the morning of November 10th, 1813. The mountain itself was not particularly tall, nor steep, with wide foothills, and only lightly forested. It was valuable for its strategic position against the banks of the Nivelle river, which was wide enough for small boats to traverse. If the allies were able to capture the river, it would make resupply during their campaign in France far easier; rather than week-long horseback journeys through the countryside, supply caravans could use barges and make far better time.

The taking of the mountain itself would be easier said than done. Despite an advantage in numbers of over ten thousand, Wellington's army had few good options for attacking walled fortresses high on the mountainside. Eventually, the command had settled on a controversial maneuver which involved essentially sacrificing three of his battalions. The 43rd, 52nd, and 95th battalions would charge the fortresses, incurring heavy losses from the artillery and riflemen but drawing the redoubts out of the rest of the conflict, so Wellington could pursue Soult's army unmolested.

The attack came as dawn broke over the Rhune, the two thousand men gathered five deep in long rows across the foothills.

Agnarr and his men heard the war horns' song, a clarion call that split the morning. Like a single, massive organism, the battalions began their march up the Greater Rhune.

A light drizzle had began a few minutes before, and it was under this misty haze that a storm of boots began their advance towards the French fortresses. They were a little over a kilometer from their destination, and shelling was likely to begin at a distance of 900 meters, a typical long-distance shot for carronade. The twenty-four pound guns were not the most modern cannons available for warfare, having been in pretty widespread use for over forty years now. They were, however, cheap, and that meant Napoleon could outfit his army with thousands of them. The controversial French emperor was famous for his love of artillery, and his tactics would go on to revolutionize nineteenth century warfare.

In general, wars of the nineteenth century are a fascinating study in the futility of military tradition. Military geniuses like Napoleon were indoctrinating a laconic Europe to a new era of warfare, one in which formation marches and cavalry would play little part. The Napoleonic wars were conflicts of artillery, ones in which cannon-fire proved to be devastatingly effective against the orderly, militaristic battalions held over from the last century. Even Napoleon's penultimate defeat at Waterloo was won by Prussian artillery. Rainfall the night before had rendered the ground Napoleon's army was upon muddy; hence he was unable to effectively position his cannons, and his men were shelled into submission.

Agnarr and the rest of the two thousand soldiers marching towards the French redoubts knew firsthand the danger they were headed towards. The tension in the air was palpable, hearts hammering to the beat of drummer boys huddling at the edges of the lines.

From experience, Agnarr knew that marches dissolved under artillery fire. As soon as the cannons first sounded, all semblance of order in the Allied lines would begin to dissolve as men ran towards, or away from, the fortresses. He was already keenly aware that their own artillery would be largely useless against the enemy; it would be too difficult to shoot them uphill without risking friendly fire, made no easier by the increasingly muddy ground.

"Keep your heads up, men," Agnarr said, his own nervousness bleeding into his voice as he stared up the barren land towards the stone walls of the redoubts. The carronades were lined up along the window-slits and crenulations, and even from this distance he could make out the small figures of Frenchmen moving amongst them. "When they start shooting, we pick up our pace, we break ranks, but we don't turn and run, you hear me? Keep moving towards the fortresses, and soon enough we'll be in their blind spot."

"Yes, sir!" Came their call.

"I will kill many Frenchmen for your honor today, captain!" Tilik grinned again, clapping a hand against the saber he wore at his belt. Though the black man carried a rifle like any other soldier, he preferred to get close and personal if he could.

"Glad to hear it, Tilik," Agnarr said, but the rest of his sentence was lost. The shelling began.

It was the loudest noise Agnarr had ever heard, a deafening thunder accompanied by spurts of flame, leaping from the ramparts of the redoubts. Agnarr and his men started to run, battle cries and screams of pain adding to the din as the bombs exploded amongst the advancing troops. Everything was chaos. Agnarr could hardly see through the rain, which had whipped up into driving sheets, and the acrid smoke of explosions, which polluted the air and constricted the throat.

Agnarr's boots slipped in the mud, and he almost fell; arms gripped underneath his armpits and hoisted him back to his feet. Schuster nodded to his captain, shouted something indiscernible over the thunderous noise, and continued running. For half a moment, Agnarr turned to glance at the rest of the battalions. It was hell. Their ranks were broken; many were simply fleeing down the hillside. Even as he watched, a shell exploded, incinerating several soldiers and mangling another score near the blast.

Injured men, some missing one or more limbs, pitifully writhed on the ground, grasping for help, even as their comrades trampled them in their haste to get away. And yet, the advance was not halted. Wave after wave of men kept marching, becoming the new front line after the old one was slaughtered. They were making bloody progress.

"Come, on, captain!" Tilik grabbed Agnarr's arm and began to tow him along, but after a moment the crown prince got his feet underneath him and continued the charge, trying to focus his mind on the mission ahead, and not the horrors behind. Tilik took off ahead, the tall man's legs carrying him supernaturally fast.

He glanced up, and felt pride once again seeing his squad, charging ahead. They were far beyond the ranks of the rest of the army, already near enough to the fortresses that they would soon be able to fire upon the men working the carronades. They would be heroes. They –

A shell hit the ground twenty feet in front of Agnarr, right in the center of his squad. The crown prince hit the ground, throwing his hands over his face, just as the explosion tore his men apart. Agnarr felt a horrible pain and an incinerating heat, and then nothing more.

xxx

Silence. Agnarr jolted awake, taking a ragged, painful breath. A deluge of rain turned the ground around him to slick mud. He moved quickly, trying to pull himself to his feet, when his left arm collapsed underneath his weight. Agnarr's face drove into the muck, and he pulled it out, gasping. He realized that his left arm was savagely broken, and that he couldn't hear anything beyond a pitched ringing.

As he examined the compound fracture near his elbow, fighting down the revulsion he felt seeing the muck-splattered bone protruding from his flesh, Agnarr tried to take stock of his surroundings. Over the strange, high whine in his ears, the crown prince glanced around the battlefield. It was filled with a sea of mangled corpses, fires burning despite the rain in several places. A substantial amount of time had passed, or perhaps the clouds had grown far heavier; the sky overhead was nearly black. There was no shooting, no movement.

He turned to gaze up the mountainside, and froze. An unidentifiable mess of death littered the ground before him, corpses mangled beyond recognition and ripped to pieces by the force of the explosion. What remained of his men was blackened and withered with caustic burns, and in several places keenly white bones protruded from ashy corpses. They were all dead. Agnarr took a sharp breath. His vision suddenly swam, and he had to force his eyes shut. The lingering image of his squad's corpses burned behind his eyelids. All he could hear was that godforsaken whine.

For what could just as well have been a minute or an hour, Agnarr stared at the ground just before him, not seeing anything. The rain continued to patter on the ground, and though he knew that he was badly wounded, and would die if he didn't get help soon, the crown prince simply couldn't bring himself to move. It wasn't until he felt a hand on his arm that he stirred again, turning to see a large, burly man.

"Veuillez vous déplacer, monsieur. On peut vous aider." Agnarr realized that the ringing in his ears had faded.

Though Agnarr's French was quite good, it took him a moment for his addled mind to discern the man's words. _Please move, sir. We will be able to help you._ Agnarr looked about, confused. Where was Wellington's army? Not at the riverbanks below.

"S'il vous plait, monsieur."

Agnarr slowly allowed the man to help him to his feet. The crown prince could now see a small wagon, nearby, drawn by two horses, flicking their tails in annoyance at the rain, which had quieted somewhat now to be more of a nuisance, than anything. Upon the wagon's seat was a lady, wearing a traveling cloak with a hood. It was to this woman that the large man addressed his next comment, even as he was leading Agnarr towards the wagon. If Agnarr were in his right mind, he might have thought a fresh battlefield a strange place for this pair to be, but as it were he did not think much at all.

"Mademoiselle Calandre! J'ai trouvé un homme! Il est vivant!"

They reached the little wagon, and the young lady leaned over to peer closely at Agnarr. From this distance, the crown prince realized that she was exceptionally beautiful. With silky raven hair and long, dark eyelashes, and red lips that drew into a bow as she inspected him, Agnarr began to wonder if he was having some sort of delirious vision.

"What excellent fortune, Silliman!" The girl Calandre said in breathy, seductive French. Her voice made an impression on Agnarr, though he wasn't quite sure why. It seemed familiar, though he was quite certain he'd never met her before. "Not a moment too soon, I might add! We'd better get this poor fellow back to Maison Garnett and get him some help right away!"

Agnarr did not know if they realized he was not a French soldier, but at the moment he did not care. The shock was beginning to wear off, and he was wracked with horrible pain, pain of both the body and the mind. He did not want to think about anything right now, least of all the deaths of his men. It was true that he was badly hurt, as well; perhaps the ministrations of the French were not his first choice, but who was he to refuse a willing savior? Calandre was so innocent, so benign and beautiful, that he found himself nodding weakly.

Yes. He would allow these kind people to help him, and then he would leave to meet back up with Wellington's forces before long. Certainly before they were halfway to Paris. Agnarr allowed Silliman to help him into the back of the carriage, where he was given a hood and a blanket, and the man helped to bind his arm in such a way that the bone would not be disturbed before it could receive attention.

Were Agnarr more lucid, he might have paid more heed to the path that the wagon traveled, but as it was, he was more than content to cover himself from the drizzling rain and warm himself with the blanket. He drifted into a surprisingly comforting slumber to the sound of Calandre singing a beautiful, sad love song.


	3. Chapter Two

Chapter Two

 _Follow the road where no one goes / down the path nobody knows / find the house that's made of light / stay all evening, sing all night._

 _Inscription on china at the Maison Garnett_

* * *

Maison Garnett,

Southwestern France

November 11th, 1813

Agnarr awoke to a faintly acidic smell. He could not have known that he was smelling a concentrate of carbolic acid, used by his tenders as an antiseptic, for sterilization practices did not come into common use in medicine until nearly the turn of the twentieth century. As a matter of fact, penicillin would not be discovered for over one hundred years. As such, the smell only served to make him uneasy.

He remembered his arm this time, so rather than try to pull himself into a sitting position, he lay flat and simply looked around. He was in a four-poster bed with the curtains drawn back, revealing a stately, old-fashioned (even for this time) chamber with a lilac-colored wallpaper. Sunlight streamed through an un-shuttered window, a pleasant breeze circulating through the room. There was a sizeable mirror set against one wall, over a foot square and hardly warped, that implied wealth. Standing beside the chesterfield was Calandre, her back turned as she doused a cloth.

She was humming sweetly.

Calandre turned and saw that Agnarr had awoken, and smiled brightly. The crown prince's breath caught. She was even more beautiful now than she had seemed last night. Her eyes were bright and clear as a cloudless sky.

"Good morning, my brave soldier," she said, sweeping over to sit on the edge of the bed, near to his wounded arm. "If you wouldn't mind letting me look at that arm of yours, I'll clean it for you."

Agnarr figured that now was his chance to finally introduce himself to this pretty young lady, but he stopped himself short. What if she still thought he was French? How much of the battle had she witnessed? Was Calandre aware that her countrymen had been holed up inside their fortresses? So he merely murmured thanks as he extended his arm gingerly towards her.

Calandre gently took his arm and twisted it over, revealing the wound near the elbow. Agnarr flinched, expecting to see the same grisly puncture that he had last night. Instead, he was taken aback to find little more than a rough patch of skin, as if he had merely scraped it.

"What? My arm?" Agnarr blurted out in English, too surprised to catch himself.

Calandre looked at him with equal parts surprise, it seemed. Immediately the crown prince regretted his rashness. He'd given himself away, at the very least. But after a few moments, Calandre looked back at the wound and slowly touched the cloth to it. It stung, but not too badly as she began wiping it gently.

"What about your arm, monsieur…?" Calandre said.

"Agnarr Schuster," Agnarr said, deciding on the fly to conceal his true identity and transitioning smoothly back into French. "And as for my arm, well, it's healed! Last night there was bone sticking out of an infected wound. This morning, it looks like I fell and scraped it, nothing more. What did you do?"

"I'm terribly sorry, Agnarr… you don't mind if I call you that, do you? Agnarr?" Calandre looked into his eyes. The crown prince hurriedly shook his head.

"That's a real regal name," she said. "Agnarr. I'm terribly sorry, Agnarr, but I don't know what you're talking about. Your arm was beaten up, just like this, when we found you yesterday. Just like the rest of your body."

Agnarr was a hard man to embarrass, but he found himself turning red as he said, "You looked at the rest of my body?"

"Oh no, of course not, Agnarr," Calandre said demurely. "That would be very improper. But Doctor Matisse looked you over."

Agnarr sat back, confused. Calandre stood and removed the cloth, setting it back with the bowl. As she did, the crown prince wondered many things to himself. For one, he knew that his arm had been savagely broken yesterday. Unless he'd somehow dreamed that up. Second, something about Calandre's voice kept taunting him. It was breathy and beautiful and seductive, sure, but there was more to it than that. Third, with his wits back, Agnarr was beginning to be worried by the fact that he had no idea where he was. He decided to take his questions on a slightly different tac.

"There is a doctor here? Or one in the village nearby?"

Calandre laughed. "There is no village nearby, silly. At least not less than a day's ride away, and not using any of the traditional roads," she said mysteriously. "No, Maison Garnett is our little secret."

Agnarr frowned. "So Doctor Matisse lives here?"

"Quite a many people live here, and they all work for my father," Calandre said simply. "Perhaps you'd like to meet him? He most likes meeting new people."

Pulling himself into a sitting position, now that he knew his arm would support him, Agnarr nodded. "Yes, I should very much like to meet the master of this household."

xxx

Calandre led Agnarr throughout a massive and beautiful manor, with four separate wings, each in a very traditional, fifteenth-century style. According to the sweet girl, Maison Garnett hearkened from that era, but had always belonged to her family. Right indeed she was about her earlier statement; all manner of people populated the manor, including a doctor (to whom Agnarr was already acquainted, if only by name), six gardeners, ten servants and the master servant (Silliman, who Agnarr had also met), and also Calandre's father and her little brother, who was named Jean-Luc.

They went outside, because 'father finds the gardens very meditative.' Agnarr was happy to find it sunny and pleasant outside, quite different from the wintery Novembers of his homeland. The pleasant songs of birds floated about the trees of their orchard, a lovely tune to which Calandre hummed along. She would abruptly cut herself off as they walked, saying little things like 'not far, now,' or 'father will be oh-so-delighted to make your acquaintance, Agnarr,' only to pick up the melody without so much as a missed beat afterwards.

A small, cobbled path had wound them through the gardens, and they eventually came to a paved circle with three benches set at equal intervals around it. In the center was a small and handsome fountain, gurgling with bright, clear water. Seated at one of the benches was a tall, middle-aged Frenchman with curled hair and a gnarled nose. His skin was somewhat pale, paler than Calandre's, and he was far less pretty. Nonetheless, he had a jovial look to him and set aside his cigar as they arrived, smiling.

"Ah. Well if this isn't the young military man that my little flower has been telling me about." He stood and crossed the distance to them, shaking Agnarr's hand. It was surprisingly cold for the man's warm demeanor.

"I cannot thank you enough for your hospitality, monsieur," Agnarr said, bowing deeply. "Your household's ministrations saved my life, quite literally. I am at your service."

"Think nothing of it, my boy! We do not think kindly of warmongers of any nationality here at the Maison Garnett, and though it pains me to say it, our Napoleon is a warmonger of the first class. If he were contented with France and all she has to offer, we might not be in this fool conflict. It does my cold heart well to see an innocent young man like yourself kept from Death's grasp a bit longer. And please, call me Edouard."

"You are a better man than I could have imagined, Edouard, and it is a great pleasure to accept your generosity and kindness."

xxx

And accept it he did. Agnarr was invited to dinner that night, as he was each night thereafter, where he was seated as a guest of honor at the head of the table (at the continued insistence of Edouard, the master of the household). So Agnarr became acquainted with Jean-Luc, a boy of his early teens, pale and somewhat thin, but bright and conversational; as well as the many others who lived with the family at the Maison Garnett, such as the doctor.

For three days Agnarr became well-acquainted with this kind family and their friends, and for three days he felt that he could not have had greater fortune. They were each a great symbol of pleasantry, and quite soon Agnarr found himself wondering just how he would get around to leaving soon. For soon it did seem; whatever wonders the doctor had managed upon him, Agnarr's arm bore little more than a scratch now, and the rest of his damages were entirely gone. The crown prince was happy that none seemed to ask when he might be going, and he didn't bring it up himself.

He spent some time exploring the many acres that made up the grounds of the country manor, walking through brightly-colored orchards with the leaves a panoply of oranges and reds, traipsing around rolling hills with grazing cattle. Indoors, he found that the house boasted a splendid library, with many rare books that not even a prince had seen before. In all, his time was occupied quite pleasantly with personal matters, but by the fourth day he began to wonder why a house so full, at supper, seemed so empty, when he was wandering about.

An hour before noon on the fourth day Agnarr was seated in the library, warm light filtering through a tall window onto the yellowed pages of an old copy of _Don Quixote._ He looked around the sizeable chamber, not surprised to find himself alone. He woke up in the mornings, alone in his room. There was usually Jean-Luc at breakfast, and they spoke for an hour or so, before the boy politely excused himself to other affairs. When Agnarr arrived in the chamber, his place was already set; he saw no servants.

From then, he usually wandered the grounds or the manor until lunch, and he rarely encountered anyone. It was as if they all just simply disappeared.

Agnarr was broken from this reverie as he saw movement out of the corner of his eye. He turned to see Calandre walking past the doorway.

"Calandre!" Agnarr stood up, deciding to ask her about the family's occupation during the day. The girl stopped and stepped into the room, smiling kindly at him.

"Hello, Agnarr. What is on your mind?" She wore a surprisingly fine dress, much like every day he had seen her. She always looked ready for a night out.

"I, just…" Agnarr rubbed the back of his head. "It's just, that for all the people in this house, I never seem to see any during the daytimes. I find it somewhat curious. I was wondering if you could enlighten me."

Calandre frowned, biting her bottom lip in thought. "Well that's strange, Agnarr. I mean, of course you wouldn't see father unless you go visit the fields…"

"The fields?" Agnarr frowned.

"Yes, the crop fields," she said. "Father works the fields with some of his employees. He didn't used to, but in recent years he's grown to think himself fat. He does it for the exercise, I suppose."

Agnarr found Edouard more remarkable and unique the more he heard about the man. "I see." He was quiet for a moment. "What crops still need tending in November?"

There was an indiscernible flash of emotion across Calandre's face, so fast that Agnarr didn't notice. "Oh, no, they're managing the fields, now," she said. "In another week or so, as a matter of fact, they'll have done everything they need to prepare them for winter.

"And of course, after he gets back at the end of the day, he usually bathes himself to be rid of the sweat," she continued. "So you wouldn't see father much until the evening. And as for Jean-Luc, well, he's very sickly, you see."

Agnarr nodded; he'd expected that much.

"So he spends much of his day in his wing, alone or sometimes with Doctor Matisse. He does enjoy company, you know."

Calandre smiled, as if that was all she had to say.

"And you?"

"Hmm?" She looked genuinely surprised.

"I've barely seen you since I arrived here, Calandre."

She smiled again, and batted her eyes delicately. "Are you saying that you'd like to see me more?"

Agnarr felt his breath catch. _Silly._ Despite his handsome face and noble manner, Agnarr hadn't much experience with women by this stage of his life. One of the quirks of his advanced station was that it was difficult to find amiable young women, especially ones that his father approved. Everyone else was intimidated by him, or so far below his station that they would never meet.

"Well, I should like to see you all a bit more," Agnarr said. "So yes."

"Well then, why don't you come along with me? I was just on my way to the minister's quarters."

"I should love to," Agnarr said, hardly surprised by now to learn of yet another person living in this house.

So they went to the minister, winding their way through the expansive hallways of the building that seemed so much larger on the inside than out. Eventually they came to a wing that Agnarr had never been in before, and he was intrigued to find a little apse, with a mosaic painting of Christ and a little golden cross. Three hallways branched out of the room, including the one they had arrived in.

The minister, wearing a habit of black and white, knelt beside the little altar, deep in meditative prayer when they arrived. Agnarr was afraid to rouse him, but Calandre seemed to have no such qualms; she knocked three times on the wall.

The minister glanced over and stood. The pale, guant man nonetheless had a kindly air about himself; he smiled and strode over, shaking Agnarr's hand.

"Well hello, Mademoiselle. And Monsieur! I have not, I think, made your acquaintance yet. How do you do? I am Brother Guillermo."

"It is a pleasure to meet you, sir. I am Agnarr Schuster."

"Minister?" Calandre said. "I was hoping that you could offer me some advice. But, um…" She glanced over at Agnarr. "I'm terribly sorry, Agnarr, but perhaps I shouldn't have brought you along. You see, it's of a rather private nature."

Surprised, Agnarr quickly nodded his head. "Of course, Calandre. I'll excuse myself."

"Just for a moment," Calandre said, wincing.

Agnarr assured her that it was nothing, and then stepped into one of the nearby hallways, figuring that he'd do a bit more exploring while he waited for her. He walked along a stone chamber, un-painted, that struck him as a bit more austere and rugged than the rest of the Maison Garnett. This place seemed old, too; there was a fine particulate dust settled in some of the crevices between bricks.

He heard small voices start up behind him, inaudible save their intonation. Despite the private nature of the conversation, Calandre did not sound distressed, or even embarrassed. To his surprise, her voice seemed rather commanding. It was a tone he'd not heard from her before, though it toyed at the back of his mind somewhere.

He came around a corner, not really having paid attention to where he was going, and realized that he was at a dead end. He glanced over his shoulder and realized that he'd met an intersection, and turned right. He'd ended up at the end of a rather short, empty hallway. _Curious._ _It's odd, how some of these older manors have so little rhyme or reason to their floor plans,_ Agnarr thought to himself as he idly leaned against the wall.

Something moved. _Chunk._

Startled, Agnarr stepped back from the wall and saw that he had depressed one of the stones with his weight. _Uh-oh._ He turned, looking around for something that could help him lever the stone back into place, when the crown prince realized that the end of the hallway had opened, just a bit. _It was a door._

A secret door, at that. Agnarr paused, realizing that he'd discovered something that wasn't meant to be found. He fell completely silent, listening to the mumbled voices from the worship chamber. There was no change in their tenor. He glanced back at the stone doorway and slowly pushed it open. It ground softly against the floor, prickling his senses and giving way to a black open space beyond.

Agnarr took a deep breath, and stepped over the threshold.

Immediately, his impression was of dust. The air seemed thick with the stuff, clogging in his throat and making it itch. Though he could not see beyond the sliver of light let in by the door, he dared not open it further, lest the noise attract Calandre or the minister. He fumbled around the wall near the door and discovered that there was a lantern. He carefully drew a match from his pocket and lit it, illuminating the lantern.

He turned and gazed with surprise upon the chamber. The room was deceptively large, perhaps twenty feet wide and nearly as deep. All along the walls there were wooden shelves separated into cubbies, with a few long tables in the center of the room. In each of the compartments there was a masonry jar, shut at the top with metal clasps. Each of the jars appeared to be labeled, with names painted in black on the side.

What made things even stranger was that Agnarr recognized the names to be members of the household. _Polonius Mattise_ , would be the doctor. _Guillermo,_ would be the minister. _Jean-Luc Mercier,_ would be Calandre's young brother. As he walked along the room, examining the jars, one name gave him pause. _Angeline Mercier._ He hadn't been introduced to an Angeline. Perhaps it was the name of Calandre's mother? But Hans had assumed that she was dead.

 _What's in these, anyway?_ Agnarr frowned, taking Jean-Luc's jar off of the wall and hefting it. It wasn't particularly heavy. After a moment's thought, he worked at the clasps and removed the lid, peering inside. His breath caught. Sitting in the bottom of the jar was a heart, remarkably sterile and clean. The smooth muscle appeared dark and purplish in the poor lighting, but its form was unmistakable.

 _He was looking at a human heart._

For a moment everything seemed deadly quiet, save the rushing of blood in the crown prince's ears. Then he realized why everything was so quiet. The minister and Calandre were not speaking any more.

Panicked, Agnarr quickly replaced the lid and did the clasps, returning the jar to its spot on the shelf.

"I wonder where your friend the soldier has gotten off to," he heard the minister's voice faintly, coming down the hallway. "I believe that it was this direction."

Agnarr hurried across the room, stopping at the lantern and unshuttering the candle. He hurriedly blew it out, even as now footsteps were audible in the hallway approaching the secret chamber. He stepped back into the hallway and drew the door closed behind him, wincing at the grating of the stone against the floor.

"You think that he went this way?" Calandre's voice sounded worried.

There was no handle on the stone door, and Agnarr gazed at it, wondering how on earth he might get it fully shut. Then he realized that the brick he'd pushed earlier was still indented into the wall. Acting more on instinct than intention, Agnarr hurriedly pushed the brick again. He felt a wide sweep of relief as made a small click, and then slid back into place. The door behind him swept itself shut just as Calandre and the minister stepped around the corner.

"Ah! There you are, young man! We were wondering where you had gotten off to," Brother Guillermo said, placing a hand on Agnarr's shoulder. It was cold.

The man's touch made Agnarr's skin crawl. Guillermo's name was among the ones that he had seen in that dark chamber. As a matter of fact, everyone's name had been. Except…

"Whatever were you doing down this dead end, Agnarr?" Calandre pursed her lips.

"Nothing," he said quickly. "I had been further down this hallway, but I was in the process of returning when you met me along the way. Are you done with your conversation?" He hoped that the question would force her to answer and move on from the point. It seemed to work.

"Yes, as a matter of fact, we are," Calandre said. "We ought to go now. I shan't think that we should bother the minister any further."

Guillermo laughed. "Ah, little Calandre, you could never be a bother to any at the Maison Garnett. My dear, you are the life of us all."

Calandre gave a little laugh and curtsied to him. "Well then, Agnarr, let's get along, then."

She took his arm and began to lead him away from the dark chamber. Her touch was warm.


	4. Chapter Three

Chapter Three

 _I heard all things in the heaven and in the earth. I heard many things in hell._

 _Edgar Allan Poe_

 _The Tell-Tale Heart_

* * *

Maison Garnett,

Southwestern France

November 14th, 1813

Agnarr's mind whirled as they walked along the chamber. His own heartbeat sounded to him a beating drum. It was a wonder that Calandre didn't seem to notice it.

"What did you think of the minister's wing?" She asked innocently, even as she turned a corner very deliberately.

"I found it charming, the same as the rest of this lovely manor," Agnarr lied. "But you know, I hardly had time to get too far away." He found his own voice unconvincing.

They took another corner, heading down a spiral staircase. "Well, that's a shame," Calandre said. "I'll take you back tomorrow, perhaps. I expect that you'll find this house holds many mysteries."

This did little to assuage Agnarr's suspicions that something was very rotten in the Maison Garnett. "If you don't mind me asking, where are we headed now?"

They came to a doorway, and Calandre stepped ahead to open it. "Ah. Well you see, I have a bit of a project going on today. It's been a long time in the coming, and I'm very excited to share it with you."

"A project? What kind of project?" Agnarr felt the hair on the back of his neck beginning to rise.

"As a matter of fact, I just finished speaking with the minister about the very ritual that is about to take place," Calandre continued. "You see, here at the Maison Garnett, we all lend a helping hand when it's needed."

Suddenly, Agnarr felt a viselike grip on both of his arms, pinning them to his sides. He whipped his head about and saw Edouard Mercier, the master of the household, and Silliman, the master servant, standing on either side. Their hands were like manacles of ice.

"What the hell is going on?" Agnarr struggled against their hands, but found no purchase. The men were supernaturally strong. He wrenched against their grip again and again, looking about wildly into dead, uncaring eyes. "What are you doing?"

Calandre opened the door, and they all went outside, towing the crown prince with them, continuing to gasp and thrash. They came down a set of stone steps into an interior courtyard that he had looked into before, but never entered. It was planted with drooping willow trees, and had a rotund, cobbled pavilion featuring a ring of benches, much like the one that he'd met Edouard in. In the center of the courtyard, a large cauldron was placed, bubbling with a twisted brew. A dozen members of the household were gathered on the benches; the doctor, Jean-Luc, a host of servants and cooks and gardeners. All at once, they stood to greet him.

"There's no sense in lying anymore, Agnarr Siguror," Calandre said, her voice suddenly hard and cruel. The men threw Agnarr down onto the stones of the pavilion, and before he could move, something blunt struck the back of his head.

He smacked the ground hard, and for a moment brilliant flashes of light obscured his vision. He still heard her voice, and now it haunted him. It was _the_ voice. The one that had been tormenting his dreams for some time now.

"I know who you are." Even as Agnarr tried to struggle to his feet, a foot stepped on top of one of his hands, the heeled ankle stabbing him. He screamed in pain and tore his hand away. He could tell that it had been cut open; that it was bleeding. He cradled it. "Please don't try anything stupid, Agnarr. I don't enjoy hurting you."

His sight came back, slowly. He gasped. He saw many legs about him. They were gathered around, standing unnaturally silent.

"What have you done to them?" Agnarr's voice was thick with pain. "Their hearts."

"Ah. So you _were_ lying, then," Calandre said. "I don't like being lied to."

Silliman kicked him, savagely. Agnarr coiled in on himself, hugging his hands around his knees and moaning with pain. Another kick came, and then another. He saw Jean-Luc wind his foot back, but Calandre raised a hand.

"That's enough. We need him alive, and I would prefer it if he were conscious for what's about to come."

The blows stopped immediately.

"You found my embalming chamber," Calandre said, squatting down beside Agnarr and twisting his face towards hers with a hand. "The other members of my household have been so kind as to be my subjects. I've learned a lot from them. Gotten quite a bit better, over time. Jean-Luc was first, and you can see some of my sloppiness. He's weak, sickly. Has to stay inside most of the day. On the other hand, Doctor Mattisse can stand in broad daylight for hours. He's practically unchanged."

"You… you killed them." Agnarr stared bleakly into those cruel eyes that had just hours before seemed so kind and innocent.

"Yes, and no," Calandre said, standing up and walking back over to the cauldron. Agnarr felt hands hoist him into a standing position, where he wavered for a moment before finding his footing. Edouard began binding Agnarr's hands behind his back with rope. "They're certainly not dead. Only a fool would think that. I've merely… taken control. Their thoughts are no longer their own. They answer to me."

Agnarr looked about, feeling the throat-constricting, chest-tightening panic of someone about to die. "What kind of foul creature are you?'

"Ah." Calandre was now examining a knife with a silver glimmer along the edge. She puckered her lips in a pout and turned to face him. "Now that's no way to treat a lady."

She indicated, and Silliman punched Agnarr in the gut. He doubled over and coughed, tasting something metallic.

"But if you really must know, and I suspect that if you were more astute you might be able to guess on your own, I am a witch. A necromancer, if you want to split hairs."

"This is the work of the devil," Agnarr said. "This is black magic."

"As a matter of fact, it _is_ black magic," Calandre said, stepping over and pinching the sides of Agnarr's face, smiling. "Catching on a bit faster, now, are we? But to your other statement, no, this is the work of something far more powerful than your devil."

"What?" Agnarr found himself trying to get her to keep talking. He didn't know what more time would buy him, but he wasn't ready to die, and stalling let him grasp at precious seconds as they slipped away from him.

Calandre turned to walk back to the cauldron, beginning to talk as she did. "Once upon a time, very long ago, there was a great and terrible force." Her voice fell to a reverent whisper. "It was glorious.

"But its power waned," she said, her voice growing mournful. "The darkness was driven away. Some thought that it would never return. For millennia, it seemed that they were correct."

Agnarr's brain frantically worked, trying to conjure up a way to escape. But there was none. He was helpless.

"But I have heard its voice, and it has bestowed upon me the honor of recalling it to life. I could not be more grateful to oblige."

Calandre slowly drew her tongue along the blade of the knife.

"You're insane."

Calandre turned to gaze distastefully at Agnarr. "Recalling the God of Darkness will require a tribute of blood."

The masonry jars that Agnarr had seen in the hidden room ringed half of the circle, and as Calandre spoke, the others dispersed to retrieve their own jar. Silliman was occupied detaining Agnarr, so Calandre picked up his.

"I think a dozen hearts will be a fitting way to start things off."

All at once, the clasps were undone. The occupants of the Maison Garnett stepped up to the cauldron and awaited the necromancer's orders. Agnarr found that a horrified scream was lost in his throat, trapped inside him.

"Thank you for your service, each and every one of you," Calandre said. "You will be remembered as heroes in the new world order. Why don't you start us off, Jean-Luc? It's only fitting that you would be the first to accept the Dark God's blessing."

"No, Jean-Luc! Don't listen to her –" Agnarr's voice was cut off as Silliman wrapped a burly arm around his mouth and started squeezing. Agnarr tried to struggle, but the man was far too strong.

The boy nodded. Then he upended his jar, and his heart fell out into the admixture. As soon as it touched the murky liquid, the boy started to scream. He fell to his knees, the jar shattering on the stones beside him. His voice was horrible; he started clawing at his own face with ragged nails, digging bloodless furrows into the flesh. Then his entire body started to decay.

Agnarr shut his eyes, blocking out the boy's wretched suffering. After a few more seconds, there was no more noise.

"Excellent." Calandre's vexing voice sounded bare after the hoarse screaming. "Who wants to be next?"

One by one, the occupants of the Maison Garnett sacrificed themselves in the same horrible way, their suffering stabbing at Agnarr like knives. And yet they never stopped, never wavered. Last of all, Silliman left Agnarr behind and met his own demise. When his screaming left a sharp silence behind, only Calandre and Agnarr remained.

Agnarr roared and leapt to his feet, swinging at her with all the force he could muster. Calandre dismissively waved a hand, and some dark force struck him in the gut, stopping his momentum and driving the breath from his lungs. She casually reached out and placed a hand on his shoulder, pushing him over. Then she turned back to the cauldron and began chanting.

Agnarr tried to stand again, but found he could not. The weight pressed into his chest, forcing him to the stone ground. He could barely even move.

He felt a profound déjà vu, hearing the necromancer's dark words. He'd heard them all before, although he could not discern their meaning. A thick, black smoke began to rise in curls from the now blood-red liquid, and Agnarr began to feel something in the air. A grasping cold began to fill the air. Little elaborate swirls of ice formed on the ground, and Agnarr's breath formed vapor before him.

Still she chanted on, her voice swelling and fading in lilting refrains. She was singing something, some dark and twisted song of pain and hatred.

"Don't do this, Calandre!" He screamed, growing truly desperate. "Please, don't do this!"

His words fell on deaf ears, and it seemed that they came too late. With a piercingly high fermata, Calandre's voice faded away. There was no time for silence. Immediately afterward, a deep roar filled the air, so loud it felt like something sharp had been jammed into Agnarr's ears. Everything was dark, the purest darkness he'd ever known. There was no light for several seconds, but to Agnarr it could have been years.

When his vision returned, _it_ was here. A great, swirling darkness filled the courtyard, swirling blackness with glints of something fiery in its core. The roaring suddenly ceased. Agnarr's ears rung.

 _"THE DARKNESS… HAS… RETURNED!"_ Its voice rumbled with the energy of raw power.

Calandre fell to her knees, tears of joy running down her face as she beheld the Dark God's majesty.

"Oh great and powerful master, it is an honor to be the one to recall you to life," Calandre said. "I offer you a human sacrifice." She motioned towards where Agnarr lay.

He tried one last time to move, but his limbs betrayed him. Agnarr could only watch as the horrible thing spoke again.

" _WHAT WORTH IS THIS SACRIFICE TO ME?"_

"He is the crown prince of Arendelle, my liege. A noble of high breeding."

" _I CARE NOTHING FOR THE POLITICAL SQUABBLES OF THIS BENIGHTED WORLD,"_ the shadow roared. " _AND YET, I SENSE THAT I REQUIRE A SOUL TO PROPERLY BIND MYSELF TO THIS PLANE."_

"Yes, master, you must eat! Consume the man and become whole again!" Calandre's voice was manic.

" _YES. THANK YOU. I BELIEVE THAT I WILL."_

The darkness swirled again, and rushed towards Agnarr. The fiery glints stoked, and a great maw appeared in the darkness, widening to engulf the crown prince.

"No!" Agnarr screamed, throwing his hands in front of his face. He was too panicked to realize that Calandre's immobilization spell had unraveled in the face of far greater magic. "It's her you want!"

For a second, the darkness halted. Agnarr knew that he was being cowardly, yet he saw a glimmer of hope, and he grasped for it frantically.

"I am but an ordinary man! If you take my soul, you will be weak! Your core will be nothing more than a mortal!" He had no idea if what he was saying made any sense, but he was playing a hunch. He pointed at Calandre. "She is a powerful necromancer! Take her, and take her magic! Calandre's soul will make you strong!"

The shadow was quiet. It was thinking. Calandre's smile faded, and a bleak terror suddenly flickered across her face.

"No! No! Take the man! I am loyal, master! It is by my hand that you have returned!"

" _YOU BOTH SPEAK THE TRUTH,"_ it rumbled. " _YOU HAVE BEEN OF GREAT USEFULNESS, NECROMANCER. AND YET, THE MAN IS RIGHT. HE IS WEAK. YOU ARE STRONG."_

"No! NOOOO!" Calandre screamed, her face contorting with rage. "I curse you, Agnarr son of Agundar! I curse you and your lineage to suffering, and to untimely death! I curse you –"

Calandre's voice was cut off as the darkness fell upon her. It swirled about her for a moment, totally obscuring her, before suddenly, Agnarr saw her again. She faced him, her face contorted with rage, pointing a finger at his chest. Even as he felt her curse take hold, a dark thing that latched onto his heart, her skin began to slough away. Her body ran with blood, her muscles and guts began to fall, her eyes burst and ran down the sides of her screaming face. Then the darkness covered her again, and all he heard was her screams.

Agnarr stumbled to his feet and ran, ran as fast as he could for the door. Calandre's voice abruptly cut off. So she was dead. He threw open the door and slammed it behind himself, hoping against hope that it would do something, anything to stop the darkness. He stumbled, suddenly, and tumbled into the wall, lying there in a daze. He could run no further. All his energy seemed to be gone.

He felt a sharp, painful twinge in his heart. Agnarr groaned and unbuttoned his shirt, revealing a dark stain above his heart. His skin was blackened in a roughly circular patch, with creeping tendrils spreading out in the direction of his arteries. The curse had taken hold. It would take many years, however, before it began to take its toll.

Agnarr lay there, panting, for several more seconds, awaiting a death that he was certain would come in a matter of seconds. It did not. Eventually, he stood again and opened the door to the courtyard. The darkness was gone.

A mangled mess of blood and guts was all that remained of Calandre. Agnarr felt bile rise in his throat, and he had to look away. He'd seen many gruesome injuries on the battlefield, but nothing like this. She'd been torn apart by that thing. The cauldron lay sideways, knocked over by the force of the darkness. Little remained of the unholy admixture that had been inside. All that remained of the other occupants of the Maison Garnett were the shattered masonry jars that had held their hearts. Not even their ash remained.

Agnarr simply stood there, and stared, for a long time. He'd been right. He was simply too powerless for the darkness to care. Eventually he turned, and closed the door behind him. It seemed that it was time to go.

xxx

Two weeks later, a lone approached the rearguard of Admiral Wellington's army. In the time since the Battle of Nivelle, they'd traveled many leagues northward. It was expected by some that they'd reach Paris before Christmas. The army was in the heart of French territory, and as such the rearguard was on edge, receiving this stranger.

He wore a hood low over his face, and he rode with bowed shoulders. A trio of horsemen rode out to meet him on the road, and as they came close he reined in his steed. The roan looked every bit as weary as its rider. They'd had to travel hard, to recover so much lost ground, and they'd been surviving on little.

"Whoa, there, stranger. Name your business with the allies or leave us in peace." The head of the cavalry had fine epaulets. Agnarr found himself wondering idly whether he outranked the man. It was sometimes hard to tell how much his social status afforded him.

"I will name myself, and I hope that it will suffice," Agnarr said, casting back his hood. "I am Agnarr Siguror, crown prince of the Southern Isles and captain of the Allies. I was wounded badly at the Battle of Nivelle, likely presumed dead. I have returned."

The men stared for several moments. Finally, the lead among them spurred his horse to ride up alongside Agnarr's, where it drew to a halt and knickered. The man extended his hand.

"Well goddamn, Lord Siguror. Welcome home."

The men's hands clasped, and Agnarr smiled. It was good to be back.


	5. Afterword

Author's Note:

This is the end of the second TLD short story, and it was certainly the more ambitious of the pair. Remember, TLD 2: _Words of the Protector_ debuts on August 14th! I hope that you're all as excited as I am.

xxx

Afterword

 _Few truly understand magic._

 _Lady Blackheart_

* * *

Sadden's manor

Arendelle

May 16th, 1843

Elsa uncrossed her legs, and then re-crossed them the other way. "So… I have to imagine that my father didn't remember the necromancer's last words correctly. They don't have anything to do with making me a witch."

"There are many curiosities in the tale I have just recounted, miss, some of which were very recently illuminated by Wulfric Shaw. For one, when your father originally told me this story, there was no mention of what we now recognize to be Everdark. He claimed that the other members of her household were still alive when he arrived, and that the ritual he interrupted was the one that would make them into the strange, undead creatures that they were.

"It is understandable that your father would not wish to feel responsible for failing to interrupt the return of something great and powerful that he surely did not understand, and as time went by and he never again saw or heard sign of the living darkness, he was content to propagate the lie." Montaigne's hands were clasped before his face and he leaned forwards, placing his pointed fingers atop his lips in deep thought. "Likely, he also considered his behavior cowardly. Your father always did fancy himself a brave man, and he only made it through his brush with Everdark through means few would consider noble."

The grandfather clock against the wall tolled four in the morning.

"And of course, we come to the necromancer Calandre's last words, and their rather oblique meaning." Montaigne sighed. "I cannot explain to you why her curse did everything that it did, but we can agree that on at least one count, it has already succeeded. Your father died in a young and untimely manner."

Elsa felt a deep discomfort at the thought that she and Anna carried the same blood. The same words of dark magic.

"Although we will likely never know the necromancer's last words for certain, Shaw seems fairly confident in his description of them."

"Which raises another question," Elsa said. "How on earth does that monk know any of this?"

Montaigne simply shook his head. "I have not the slightest idea, miss. The man seems capable of strange and wonderful things beyond our simple understanding.

"Returning to the case of the phrasing of your curse, miss, I consider it important that Calandre's words were cut off at the end. She never finished her last statement of 'I curse you –.' It seems to me, perhaps, that without any finite, _spoken_ commands on her part, the dark magics she wove may instead have interpreted her transient thoughts, in her dying moments, and transferred them to the curse. We need little imagination to guess that she was thinking of the magical ability that doomed her, in that instant."

"So she made me a witch because she didn't articulate the curse correctly?" Elsa's head reeled. "That seems like a momentous result for something as simple as failing to finish a sentence."

"Incredible things happen at the instant of death, miss. I believe that you are the product of one of them."

"So why not Anna?" Elsa said, softly. The same question she'd been asking for years, only now with more direction.

"We may never know, miss," Montaigne said. "Perhaps she is a witch, and we just don't know it yet. Perhaps Calandre's curse was spent by the time it passed on to you. Any number of a dozen different things could have happened, as well."

The last question that Elsa had, which she could not expect an answer to from Montaigne, was nonetheless the most important: _why did Everdark believe that Elsa was destined to defeat it?_ Was it something to do with the curse? Perhaps, in Calandre's final moments, as her soul was taken into the darkness, some of the darkness leeched into the curse as well.


End file.
